


File Corrupted

by thevictorinox



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, References to Suicide, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2011-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:11:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thevictorinox/pseuds/thevictorinox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock’s files are corrupted.  John doesn’t run into Mike Stamford in the Park. He never meets Sherlock. Sherlock sees a possible outcome of this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	File Corrupted

**Author's Note:**

> One-Shot, Non-Beta'd or Brit-picked.

Sherlock stood by the long window watching as Lestrade stepped out of his car. He whirled around, bathrobe flaring. Please be a triple homicide, a double, anything, It would be perfect if it was another of that series.

“Another Suicide.” Lestrade confirmed but something in his posture, slouched, no, not one of the serial suicides. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“This one isn’t even part of the serial suicides, don’t bother.”

“Shut up Sherlock, we don’t know it’s a suicide yet!”

“Please, why waste my time?”

“’Cause I’ve got nothing else on the table for you, you haven’t been out for a week, and Mrs. Hudson called me. So, come, do a turn around the man’s bedsit and tell us what happened. “ Lestrade pleaded.

“No.”

“For God’s Sake Sherlock, get dressed and in the car!” Sherlock dignified Lestrade with a look of disdain. It was at this moment that Lestrade decided to pull out the big guns, well, his last straw and it was dirty. “Don’t make me call your brother.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” The venom of that sneer could be felt from across the room.

“Really? I’ve got him on the speed-“

“Well, yes that makes sense for a man that’s fucking him….which I would really rather not know by the way, thanks.” Sherlock seemed pleased with the amount of crass he applied to the sentence. Lestrade would sputter, if it weren’t for the fact that it wasn’t the first time Sherlock had said it.

“Aren’t we a bit past that now? I’ve been to Christmas dinners.”  Lestrade flung back absently while checking the text that came in on his phone. And match, with the point to Lestrade.

“Fine….I’ll be downstairs in a moment.”

 

\-----

 

Sherlock stalked into the room, brushing past Anderson and his grumbling about disturbing the scene.  There was a forensics woman in the corner taking photographs of something in the kitchenette but the room was empty otherwise, of the living at least. It was an efficiency, month-by-month, dull and dreary, in shades of beige that were only broken up by the occasional shade of brown from the modest furniture. Oh and the spray of blood up the wall, who could forget the blood.

Sherlock glanced around the room further; no personal effects were left out.  In the open wardrobe, Sherlock could a modest collection of dress shirts, trousers, one or two suits hanging, all evenly spaced, shoes lined neatly in their rows at the bottom, all polished to a sheen, compulsively orderly? No, habitually so. Clothing, maybe four or five years old, good condition, storage, travelling overseas. Military.  There was a walking-stick, adjustable, handle was smooth from the oils of the palm but the rubber grip, slightly depressed, full weight was not put on the cane, psychosomatic limp then,  traumatic experience, war-zone, Middle-East. Traumatic experience but not enough to be put in a psychiatric hospital, invalidated for another reason then, poor-performance? Unlikely.  Serious injury then, released two to six months ago.  There were two thick volumes stacked in the corner of the desk, medical, older volumes.  The lack of new marks, and slight dust, suggested they were there purely for reference, a doctor, an army doctor. 

That baffled Sherlock a bit, why would an army doctor commit suicide? A soldier had a sense of duty, especially one like this who honored the strict rules of the military after all, it didn’t make sense to leave behind a job helping people, unless, right, temporary living, an army doctor trying to get back on his feet, no employment. The man had looked long enough and was discouraged now, closer to six months he had been back then.  A box of ammunition  sat neat and square on the table, only one missing. Definitely invalidated by injury, if this man felt confident enough in his aim to end his life in one shot.

Sherlock had enough guessing at the man’s personality, it was time to confirm with the body.  He had an odd prickling in the  back of his mind, a tingle of dread. Sherlock attempted to brush it away, corpses no longer scared him, not even ones with missing fragments of their parietal bone.  Sherlock wandered over to the body, the sense of dread only increasing as he reached the bed where it was slumped back.  Blood and brain matter painted a high-velocity macabre spray. Gun in right hand, watch on left , right handed. He glanced around the room. Tea cup oriented left, desk lamp, left, books, not as important, right. Ah, left-handed, shoots right. Interesting.

It was when Sherlock finally looked at the man’s face that he stopped.  A man by any means was average, his features were pleasant but by no means distinguishable, sandy blonde hair, a tan, halting at the collar, lines just beginning to press age into his face, mid thirties. This man, this man was somehow familiar, startlingly unique in his mind, and familiar. Sherlock’s hard-drive went to work. No. He had never met this man before. Yes he had. No. No he hadn’t. His mind almost shorted with the conflicting data. No. Wait. He was _supposed_ to meet this man. He was supposed to meet him today.  Sherlock didn’t know how, when or why. But today, he was to meet him today, about the flat, and someone was supposed to be there but they weren’t. The catalyst was broken, no, the catalyst was _gone_ and this man was supposed to be alive.  He was supposed to hold some significance to Sherlock, the data said this man was very, very important. Why? Where was the data? _File Corrupted_.

“Sherlock? You alright? You look a bit queasy.” Lestrade’s voice in his ear.

“Was supposed to meet him, but data corrupted. Catalyst missing.”

“What are you on about? You didn’t start using again did you?”

“No. I was supposed to meet him.”

“Who?”

“Him!” Sherlock stabbed the air in the direction of the dead man.

“Him!?! How? Why? He’s just some bloke!”

“Not Some bloke!” Sherlock was struggling for the data, fragments were coming together. Bits of data. Lestrade stepped into Sherlock’s line of vision, concern on his features. “John…..John Watson.”

“Sherlock, how do you know him?”

“I don’t I was supposed to meet him today. At Saint Bart’s I was supposed to be at Saint Bart’s this afternoon and meet him. Someone….some….” He was trying to sound out the words, suss out a name from being trapped by his tongue and Lestrade just stared in disbelief, Donovan looked at him like he had finally melted down. “Someone wasn’t there. “ Sherlock twirled around the room, looking around frantically, clue, clue, any clue god dammit! The information, where was it? He looked back at the corpse, no, the body of John Watson.  Former army, still Doctor, John Watson.  The body-twitched, moved. It  sat straight up and looked right at him, opening it’s mouth. Sherlock could see the gaping hole to the back of his head.

A door slammed behind him, distant sounding.

_“Sherlock?”_

Sherlock bolted up, panting, breathing, eyes alarmed and wide. He nearly fell off the couch,  barely still on. He must have flailed in his sleep then.

“Sherlock did you get my text?” And that was it, Sherlock was on the floor with a shout. John knit his brows together in worry. “Are you alright?” He took a step forward as Sherlock scrambled back and to his feet. “Sherlock! It’s just me, John.” That seemed to get a reaction from Sherlock. It was John, John Watson, and John knew him. Sherlock leaned forward and took John’s head roughly in his hands, moving and twisting to see the angles. “Sherlock! Ow! What the hell?” No, parietal bone still intact, brain still contained, John Watson still alive.

 _John Watson, still alive._ In his flat. No. Their flat. Just a dream then.  Sherlock released his hold on his flat-mate.

“What the hell’s going on Sherlock? Are you high?” The Doctor’s eyes swept the room for signs of drugs.

“I…I think a file was corrupted. My subconscious temporarily deleted Mike Stamford, following memories were altered.”  John looked at him blankly, Sherlock watched as the connections were made slowly behind John’s eyes.

“Sherlock, what happened?”

“I-…Irrelevant.” Sherlock dropped his gaze.

“No. What happened? In your dream?”

“I was at your efficiency flat. It was all beige and brown.” He hadn’t met John’s eyes yet but he could feel the concerned stare. “It was a crime scene.”  Understanding came to John’s eyes, and disturbance. “You were the crime scene. You had…You..” He struggled. John looked so concerned, but he clutched the words as if saying them made them true. “You committed suicide.” A flicker came across John’s eyes, like a secret that had been found out.  Confession, guilt, then a smile.

“I’m right here.” He stated. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“If you wouldn’t have seen Mike Stamford.”  John sighed, sitting down.

“If I wouldn’t have ran into Mike Stamford, I wouldn’t be here.”  There were so many connotations with that sentence, the weight of it made Sherlock want to gag.  “I bought an unregistered firearm because it was comfortable. It was familiar. I thought about it, eating that pistol, I won’t lie.” John stared down at his hands for a moment then looked over as Sherlock lowered himself onto the couch beside him.  “But I haven’t since, not once.”

“Promise me not ever again.”

“Sherlock.”

“I’m serious.”

“I am too. I’d be lost without my detective.”

_File repaired, corruption deleted. New File, data unknown, name, Reactions: John Watson._


End file.
